St Petersburg
by flutterbymelodies
Summary: Only a year into their partnership, Clint Barton and Natasha Romanoff's mission goes sideways, and they must learn to trust each other to stay alive.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

* * *

Clint's back slammed firmly into the mat. A grunt escaped his lips, but he was retaliating just the same. He took one hand and clenched his fingers on Natasha's knee, and the other on her ankle. He twisted her in such a manor that he was able to flip her body off of his pained chest. While she was still recuperating from the twist, he pushed his hands into the mat and flipped himself to his feet. Before he even had any time to get another hit in, she retaliated by flying through the air with a foot aimed towards his head. He was barely able to dodge the kick, but found an opportunity to grab her leg and fasten it to his side. Bad idea. She used this as an advantage to hook her other leg to his neck, and pushed him over on his back. She was off balance when she landed, her leg twisted awkwardly. He used the brief moment to his advantage. He rolled from his place on the floor to grab her at the ankle. He was able to land her on the ground, but she swiftly drove her elbow into his rib cage. That fucking hurt. She easily flipped herself to land her legs around his neck, and he knew it was over. He flailed helplessly beneath her and knew this was another battle lost. He tapped her twice to let her know that he was defeated, and she was the victor. She easily slid to her feet, staring at the panting man that she had conquered.

"You've gotten better." She informed as she held out her hand to him. He graciously accepted the offer and used her weight to lift up, and propped himself to stand next to her.

"Are you sure about that, cuz you still seemed to have kicked my ass." Laughed Clint.

" I beat you and you find it funny?" Questioned Natasha. She rarely ever understood his sense of humor.

"It's not everyday that a man gets to be taken down in a thigh choke by a beautiful woman." Teased Clint. What came next, he did not expect, but it didn't surprise him either.

Natasha clocked him across the jaw, and the young agent stumbled to catch his balance.

"Cheeky," smirked Clint. "It only adds that much more interest!" There was that mischievous look in his eyes that always caused her to roll her eyes.

"Don't push it." She demanded in all seriousness.

"Oh come on Romanoff, laughing doesn't kill you know. Say, when's that last time you laughed anyways?".

"I laugh," she defended, refusing to accept the blatant reality.

"Smirking when you whack me doesn't count, Romanoff."

"OH?", she responded playfully. "Are you so sure about that, немой один?". She swayed her hips as she strutted to the locker room.

His eyes stayed in sync with her hips as she proudly paraded across the gym floor. He purposely diverted his eyes away, to anything but her.

"Is that all you got, ребенок?" He giggled. He thought he may have even seen a smile form from her full lips as she tilted her head over her shoulder ever so slightly.

She scoffed and flipped her curls behind her back, exposing a middle finger and she exited through the door. Damn. Was she something else.

Clint's blue-gray eyes flashed open, showing signs of desperation. He quickly glanced at the digital clock on his bedside table. 1:37 a.m. He ran a calloused hand through his sweat wetted sandy blonde hair. It had been another nightmare.

He loosened his grip off of his desert eagle he had hidden beneath his pillow. He let out a long held sigh of relief, and slipped the pistol back into place. The dream had been about one of his countless victims he had killed during his contract assassin days. Hell, he'd just been a kid in his teens looking for a way out of his tortured, dark life, only to indulge himself into more darkness.

Clint could never forgive himself for what he had done as a sixteen and seventeen year old kid. No matter what Phil had said to him, telling him to forgive himself, he could never find that strength or confidence.

Phil always harped at the kid for not ever letting himself off the hook. Phil had taken Clint on when he asked him to join SHIELD only a few years ago. Clint had gotten on to SHIELDs radar in a bad way, but Phil saw good in the young, eighteen year old archer at the time, so he tracked down the boy and took him under his wing. Phil Coulson had been Clint Barton's saving grace. Phil had become a brother to Clint, hell, he was more like a father.

The archer lolled his way out of his bed sheets and sunk his feet into the carpet space beneath him. He was headed off to punish himself the only way he knew he could and get away with. He headed off to the training gym to face his struggles and hopefully try to forget his past sins through the intense, painful routines of his training. But Clint knew that he could never forget. He could never forget the names of the innocent, the names of the young and the old, the names of the people he had claimed the life of for no good reason but to get a pay off.

He cringed at the projections of the names circling inside his head, and thrusted open the doors to his and Natasha's private gym. He had expected to be alone, but at the punching bags stood a familiar figure.

He saw red, curled and streaming down the lithe body of Natasha Romanoff, his partner of only about a year. She was viciously pounding away at the sand filled bag in front of her in violent, swift movements.

She felt the fellow agent's presence in the room and paused to glare at him for his interruption. Her emerald eyes flashed at his blue-gray to show a sign of disdain, but it disappeared as soon as she notice that he was there for the same reason she was.

They had a way about them, finding ways of stress relief from their nightmares through extensive training in the early hours. Natasha's past of the red room constantly ebbed at her sleep patterns and always forced her to wake up in a panic, only to find herself strapping on some tennis shoes to head to the gym.

The agents only shared a look for half a second before she continued pounding at the hanging bag, and he neared his way towards the training bars. It was going to be another rough night, and when they would meet again in the morning, they would mention nothing of it.

* * *

After about an hour, Natasha felt only a slight sense of fatigue, but wanted to rid herself of another awkward, conversation-lacking night in the gym. She knew that the archer was always constantly trying to pry conversation out of her, but she always neglected giving him that satisfaction. It wasn't that she couldn't engage in conversation with her partner during the day or while on a mission, it was just she was unable to open herself up to people about her insecurities of her dreams. She gathered her things and started making her way towards the door, praying that Barton wouldn't open his god damned mouth.

"Hey Romanoff!"

Shit.

"Hi.", she stated blandly.

"Geesh, someone's prickly tonight,". Typical Barton humor.

"It's not my fault you're so boring," she snickered back. She had her own sense of humor that only few ever saw.

He raised a single eyebrow at her retaliation, and with his gleaming, stormy eyes, glared into her sparkling green ones.

She caught herself gazing into his stare for a second to long, and didn't hesitate to spin one hundred and eighty degrees toward the exit.

Similarly, Barton turned back to whatever he was doing, but called to her from over his toned, tan, shoulder.

"You know it doesn't hurt to tell me what it was you dreamed this time," he said with an understanding tone.

" I could ask you the same," she shot back quickly, and pushed herself through the doorway.

Stunned, he remembered why he tried never to give people personal, non tactical advice. He was always afraid he wouldn't listen to it.

He continued to let his gaze trail Romanoff as she strutted down the hallway. There was always something incredibly fascinating and intriguing about that young woman. He figured that was one of the reasons he had spared her life about a year and a half ago.

She had only been nineteen when he was sent to kill her, and he, only twenty one at the time. The job was back in Europe, Prague to be exact. He was sent because he was and still is the best SHIELD agent the organization has ever had, and she was listed on the top threat list according to the council.

From that day in the rain, even till a little over a minute ago, he had always seen something good and amazing in her that no one else was able too see. It was a special gift that he had, a better judgment maybe, but he could always see someone for their true nature, and he couldn't see a single evil in her.

He snapped himself out of his little day dream of his partner, and grabbed his gear to make his trek back to his quarters of their New York base. He had at least cleared his head for now, and hoped that at least some sleep would come. He couldn't remember the last time he had slept through the night not having to make his way to the gym, or give Phil a quick call. He laid his finger print down on the scanner to his room, and quickly closed the door shut behind him. He slipped off his Nikes and wiped himself clean of sweat that was cool on the back of his neck. He nimbly slid his way into his bed and turned his profile towards the clock. 3:07 a.m. He knew he had briefing in the morning and forced his eyelids shut, even though he knew sleep would still not approach.

* * *

Natasha heard her partner enter his way into his room from across the hallway. She let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, and marched herself in the same fashion to her bed as Barton was similarity practicing at the moment. She flopped down on to the standard base bed, and felt a muscle pop deep in her back. She figured that SHIELD could at least afford better mattresses for their top agents, but apparently, that seemed to be too much of a struggle. Her mind wandered to the thought of her partner, and she was caught in a moment.

She still wasn't able to figure Barton out. He was the one person that could see through her bullshit, and at their first meeting, was able to evade her alluring charms. As Barton remembered it, she huffed and seemed a little offended that her looks weren't able to render him to a vulnerable position at their first meeting.

Natasha wasn't able to understand why he had spared her, but she was still afraid to really ask. Even after all of this time, she still found it hard to trust him. She had never trusted anyone since the red room, if that was even considered trust. The red head shook herself out of her thoughts of her partner and flipped her back towards the wall out of habit. She let her lids fall heavy and in a moment, drifted off into a light sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Six in the morning and Phil power walked his way into the breakfast hall to spy his two children, as he called them, flicking each other from across the table. Pretty soon, the flicking escalated to a woman's hand slapping the side of a poor boys face. Phil laughed to himself, Clint probably deserved it.

"Have you two had enough or do you both need to take a few laps?" Phil teased.

Natasha straightened her posture and turned her attention towards Phil, while Barton continued to scowl at the beauty that sat across from him.

"She started it Phil, she made fun of my bed head," cried baby Clint.

"I don't blame her Clint, you look like shit," Phil frowned.

He could tell when the archer had had another nightmare. It pained Phil to see his agent like that. The dark circles under Barton's eyes and the twitchy attitude would never let Clint hide what was bothering him, or at least for Phil. He knew that boy like he knew the back of his hand. Scratch that, like he knew the collection of his Captain America trading cards. He was the agents' handler and was always around the kid, and knew all of his little innuendos.

Clint stuck his tongue out at Natasha and she chucked a chunk of melon at his head.

"Children, please, you're giving me a headache," joked Phil.

The 'children' put their attention back to Phil and at least began to seem like they were trying to listen.

"We've got briefing in ten, meet me in conference room B. You guys have a new assignment."

Natasha obediently nodded her head and began to clear the dishes that were in front of her. More lethargically, Clint began to do the same.

"Try not to be late this time, okay Barton?" Phil teased.

"That was one time!"

Pleased with himself, Phil turned away and headed out of the room.

Clint walked in the conference room the second the clock hit the ten minute mark. Natasha raised her expressive brows as the archer strutted to his chair.

He reached for a Gatorade that was placed on the table, but in a stunning flash, the spider slapped his hand away and claimed the drink for herself just to spite him. Clint glared at her in agony as she let the cool liquids escape the bottle, into her mouth.

"Are you two done?" Questioned Phil. He didn't know what he expected out of the two, but at least they were in the same room, and on time.

Phil slid a file to each agent, with CLASSIFIED stamped in big red letters on each file. The hawk flipped open the manila file, and the spider soon followed.

"St. Petersburg." Laid out Phil. "You two are going to be taking out a man who is looking for a way to end the life of a substantially important diplomat. If this isn't settled and the diplomat isn't saved, there's a high risk of a war tilting in the balance."

Natasha eyed the file wearily and Clint continued to flip through the pages. Phil examined his two agents as they carefully memorized the pages that lied before them.

The targets name was Kazimir Ivanovich. He had distinct features that would make him noticeable in a crowd. His look was pure menacing with hair blackened as coal, dark, thick eyebrows, and paled skin. His eyes were small and beady, but they were aquatic blue. His nose was large and protruded, slanting at a downward angle. He was no taller than Clint and had a thick, muscular build. Why he wanted to start a war, that didn't matter, they just needed to take him out.

"Be ready to leave at 0300."

Phil noticed a big goofy smirk paint its way across Barton's face. He swore to God that there was nothing the kid liked more than to get himself a new assignment. Phil's lips quirked at the contagious feeling Clint had let linger in the room, and the handler laughed to himself so only he could hear.

"Any questions?" Wondered Phil.

"Just one," answered Natasha. "If Barton doesn't get himself killed this time, can I do it myself?"

"Negative" declined Phil.

Clint threw an 'aha' look at Natasha, proud that Phil had backed him up. Phil began to make his way towards the door.

"I want to do it myself," he answered back to Natasha.

She turned her face to her partner as an expression of betrayal landed on his. Phil quickly made sure he exited the room after his offensive comment, making sure that he got the last joke over Barton.

"Well, I guess that answered my questions if I have any friends," snorted Clint.

Natasha swirled her chair around to hide the smile that broadly made its home on her face. 

The next morning Phil met the two agents on the ramp of the jet that was taking them to their destination. The looks of fatigue on the agents' faces were evident, and disappointment flooded Phil's moral.

"Did either of you get any sleep last night?" Worried Phil.

Both agents shot their eyes towards the ground to avoid the question, and made their way up the ramp of the jet. By then, Phil knew what the answers to his question were, and sighed as he trailed behind them towards their seats.

Clint whipped his ear buds and iPod from his black cargos and threw them into his vacant ears. After he threw his gear up into the rafters of the jet, he plopped himself into a seat and propped his legs up in front of him. Phil was at least satisfied that we wouldn't have to deal with the young agents sass for at least a few hours, so he got himself situated and open his new copy of his favorite book. Natasha, on the other hand blankly sat in her seat, completely unoccupied. Phil glanced at her but knew of nothing that he could possible do, and let his eyes fall back to the white pages.

Clint's hawk eyes snuck their way to observe Natasha as she sat in her seat with no absolute purpose.

He was staring at her again, overtaken by her striking beauty. She had a lovely heart shaped face and pale white skin. Her complexion was flawless except for a few scrapes on her high cheekbones that had been a result of their last sparring match together. Then there were those eyes. They were the most amazing things he had ever seen. He couldn't understand how they were even real. They were smooth like glass and had a color that you could easily find yourself lost in. They resembled giant emeralds that twinkled when they caught in the light, but they hid pain behind them that would barely flash through to the surface. Then he saw red. Glorious curls swooped they're way down the sides of her cheeks and down her back. They were a beautiful red auburn that gave her the appearance as to if flames were bursting from her scalp. She was a true hot head. Without notice, he was caught by her and quickly reverted his eyes as if he had only seen her by a complete accident.

She had caught him red handed. There was no doubt that he had been peeking at her. For what reason, she did not know, but it did not seem to bother her. If it were any other man, she would have chewed him out, but strangely, it did not matter now. She observed her partner as he made himself occupied in other ways, trying to avoid an uncomfortable situation. Just as he had done to her, she began to study his traits. He had a tanned, lithe body that was flatteringly strewn with muscles. He wasn't extremely tall in posture, maybe 5'9" or 5'10", but he still had height on her 5'4" body. He had sandy blonde hair that was typically pointed upwards on his head and a sharp jawline. He was much better looking than the average man, but could be easily forgotten during an undercover mission, unlike her, where her beauty was a staple. But then there were his eyes. They looked as if a storm constantly swirled within them, retaining a blue-gray color that could knock you dead. But she could see pain inside them, a pain similar to her own.

She tried to force herself to look away before he felt her eyes on him, but it was too late. His head whipped to the side to stare directly at her, and the storm in his eyes seemed to grasp her in with its strong winds.

Their eyes remained locked on each other for what seemed like an eternity. They didn't know what it was, or what exactly was going on, but they could not escape from each other's gazes. They weren't exactly sure how long they remained there, just looking at each other, but as soon as the thrusters of the jet set in, they came back to reality.

Phil watched the two agents as they locked eyes with each other. He'd seen that look before, and had experienced it himself. He hoped this wasn't going where he thought it was. There was protocol against these sort of things, but convinced himself to forget it and remain unconvinced, and guiltily looked back to his hard copy.

Natasha closed her eyes hoping that she would forget whatever it was that had just taken place, but she found herself struggling for a breath that had not entered her lungs since she first locked eyes with her partner. She greedily let in the sweet air, and gently shook her head, trying to escape whatever it was she was feeling.

Clint turned his head away from Natasha the second he felt the thrusters engage. What had just happened, he did not know, but he was startled. He looked towards the window, trying to wash out the event that had just taken place, and let himself drift into a light sleep.

They had only been in the air for a little over half an hour when Clint heard the shrill sound of Natasha's scream. He didn't know what convinced his body to move with such force, but in half a second, he found himself kneeling at her side.

"Romanoff, Romanoff!" Clint gasped as he lightly grasped the corners of her shoulders. She was stone cold, and worry set Clint's now hard expression.

Phil was now staring, stoked at the two agents whom he had never seen touch each other outside of sparring or swats of annoyance. Clint was nearly cradling her as some color returned to her face.

"It's okay Romanoff, you're safe, I've got you," Clint panted as she slightly shook.

His voice hushed as he nearly took her into a hug. "Hey, it's okay, you're with me now, it wasn't real."

A sign of shock flashed through her expression, and she realized that Barton's arms were around her. In fear if not knowing how to respond to the affectionate gesture, she pried his arms away from her and looked at him like a deer in the headlights.

"I'm fine," she paused, "can you leave me alone now?" Her tone was much harsher than she imagined it was going to be, and the archer backed slowly into his chair, but fear and relief seemed to swell in his eyes all at once.

"You okay, Romanoff?" intervened Phil.

"Yah, Coulson, I'm okay."

Phil recalled the turn of events that had only take place within the minute, and had a grave realization. This was headed exactly where he thought it was. And this flight was only going to feel so much longer than it was already going to be.

About an hour after the curious incident, Natasha's head lagged to the side of her shoulder to rest on the plane window. She was in a much deeper sleep at this point, so Phil figured that he might as well get it over with now.

"Clint, we need to talk."

Barton slid his feet down from where they rested and set them on the jets floor. He reluctantly followed Phil to the back of the jet and prepared himself for the speech he was sure he was about to receive.

"What the hell was that?" Boomed Phil, yet staying silent enough that Natasha wouldn't wake.

"I don't know what your talki-"

"The hell you do!"

The young archer let a deep sigh escape through his breath, and he ran all ten of his fingers through his hair. Shit. He didn't know what had happened.

"Look kid, you've got to think about what you're getting yourself into, you don't want this to distract you in the field or..."

"Are you questioning my ability to do my job, Phil?"

That really pissed off Barton. He could handle Phil being pissed at him for going against protocol, or pushing himself too hard in training on the account of his nightmares, but he just couldn't handle Phil doubting his ability to do his job.

Phil looked down to the floor in shame. Hurting his agent was one thing that he never wanted to do. He noticed Clint's forehead crease in anger and disappointment, and his brows furrowed to mimic the expression of a lost child. But that's all that Clint really is. He's been lost since his parents died in a tragic accident around sixteen years ago. Lost since his brother betrayed him and left him to die during their circus days. Lost since he had become a hired gun as a teen.

Phil couldn't bear to see that look. A lump caught in his throat as he tried to make the words come out to soften his already painful blow of words. Phil couldn't find a single word to escape his lips.

"Phil!"

"I'm sorry kid, I didn't mean it like that," Phil breathed. "I know you've got a good head on your shoulders." Phil paused. Of course Clint had a good head on his shoulders. If he didn't, they probably wouldn't be standing here having this conversation now.

Clint began to look agitated at the lack of Phil's immediate response, and shifted his feet beneath himself in a sign of discomfort.

"Phi-"

"I trust you Clint," Phil interrupted. "I just let my worry get the best of me sometimes, that's all Clint."

He paused again, and with his fatherly tone towards his agent he tried to apologize extensively.

Clint let his eyes drift from the floor to look directly at his handler.

"I know Phil. I'm sorry. I overreacted."

"No. You didn't. I should know better, Clint, and I won't doubt you again."

There were those stormy eyes again, showing Phil that he was truly forgiven. Relief set in for both of them, and Clint could tell that he was dismissed. He dragged his feet behind him as he lagged forward to his seat. When Clint finally reached his seat after his lethargic walk of shame, he paused to steal a glance at Natasha.

She was sleeping peacefully for now, and her face's demeanor looked calm and unfazed. He sluggishly melted down into his seat and closed his eyes, just trying to take it all in. He didn't know what any of this meant, and he wasn't exactly sure if he wanted to find out any time soon.


End file.
